I Do Believe I've Fallen In Love With You
by SocietalFlub
Summary: AU at the very end of The Great Game. Moriarty leaves John and Sherlock alone, and almost losing John makes Sherlock realise his true feelings for him. One-shot. Johnlock fluff.


Moriarty snapped his fingers, the door slammed closed.

Sherlock looked frantically around: not a red light in sight. They were safe. The snipers were gone, Moriarty had left them alone, and they were safe—for now. At present, that was all Sherlock cared about, safety in the thens and nows of life. He didn't care what had happened, he didn't care what would happen, all that mattered was his and John's safety.

_John! _In the seconds after Moriarty's and his henchmen's departure, Sherlock had been so consumed with assuring that they were safe that he had forgotten about John—or rather, the large bomb strapped to him. _Idiot, _Sherlock thought, _how could I have lapsed on that?!_

Down on one knee, never mind what it looked like, Sherlock desperately wrangled with the bomb, unstrapping it from his flatmate and throwing it as gently as he could to the floor. He kicked it for good measure.

'Alright?' John didn't respond quickly enough for Sherlock's liking. 'I said, **are you all right**?'

'Yes, I'm fine!' John said annoyed. 'You don't have to make such a fuss, nothing happened, I'm fine!'

'I don't have to make—John, not even two minutes ago there was a bomb strapped to your person with several snipers fixated on you! I'm very well going to make a fuss, I care too much about you. You are literally the only person whose death I could not get over.'

Sherlock had begun to blush. He wasn't accustomed to telling people how he felt. To him, emotions were useless and a disadvantage to human life. Feeling things only weighed him down, he felt; they impeded his brilliant mind's ability to think. That was why he didn't get attached to people if he could help it.

He had usually had no problem with remaining aloof from society, but when John had moved in with him, Sherlock had started to feel strange things. Feelings of care (useless; didn't make any difference in saving lives, caring), of... attraction.

Throughout university, secondary, and even primary school, Sherlock had had mild crushes on occasion. He had never had the desire to act on them, never wanted a relationship. He had thought about it, of course, but at a young age decided that staying single had worked thus far and saw no reason to muck it up with romance. Very tedious, he found it.

However, John Watson was a special case. Sherlock had never felt about anyone the way he did John. Rationality aside, Sherlock had spent more than a handful of nights in bed wondering what it would be like to be in a relationship. To be in a relationship with John, more specifically. Though he would never admit it, he had even experimented on his libido and had a wank in the shower while thinking about the dedicated way John examined dead bodies at crime scenes. It was definitely a turn on for Sherlock: intelligence, devotion, and dead things all in one.

'Well, thank you, Sherlock, for your, erm, concern.'

'It's more than concern, John. I—I think it might be love. I know nothing of what it feels like, so,' he cringed, 'I could be wrong, but I do believe I've fallen in love with you.'

'Oh, Sherlock...' trailed John. His forehead went from furrowed to soft as Sherlock stepped closer to him.

The tall man looked down at the object of his newfound affections, their noses not six inches from each other. 'I hate not knowing what I'm doing, would you mind informing me as to what happens from here?'

'From here,' John said softly, gazing at the other man's plump yet sharply defined lips, 'I believe we kiss.'

Needing no further encouragement, Sherlock hesitantly leaned down with a tilt of the head to the left and brought his lips to John's eagerly awaiting own. The doctor's arms meandered their way around Sherlock's neck and he played with and tugged at his luscious, curly dark brown hair.

After a moment, Sherlock reluctantly pulled away from John.

'Right. Er, sorry to break, but... am I doing this right?'

The look in his eyes—that of a confused child lost at the market—made John only smirk and grab Sherlock's face in both hands. 'Make what you will of this.' Still smiling, he tilted his head up and immediately brought their lips back together.

John couldn't help but laugh in frustration when, yet again, Sherlock pulled away. 'Sorry. Prat move, I know, but was that a yes?'

Rolling his eyes, John answered by kissing Sherlock with a renewed passion fuelled by exasperation. John, the expert for once, cautiously licked Sherlock's mouth, not wanting to startle him. Sherlock's eyebrows raised. Going not off of knowledge for once, but rather instinct, he opened his mouth which John eagerly invaded.

After a moment, Sherlock had quickly learned and gotten the hang of what could only be the infamous French kiss. He was new to the business of touching someone else, but he rather enjoyed it and figured that in no time he would be a master of it as with anything.

One thing he was certain of was that he would need some more practice, and he was eager to get home to do so.

_This was my first-ever Sherlock fic, which I wrote in January of this year. This is in its original form, which means there are bound to be flaws within. Please do let me know what can be improved. I hope you enjoyed!_


End file.
